Alexander watched her closely, noting the way her fingers curled slightly in her lap, the way her gaze dropped as though she were suddenly far more interested in the pattern of the carpet than in meeting his eyes.
“I have never had much control over my life,” she said after a moment, her voice softer now, stripped of its usual bite. “Not truly. When my parents died, everything… Changed. My uncle made every decision. Every choice. And then the engagement, the marriage?—”
She stopped, her lips pressing together.
“I thought,” she continued, more quietly still, “that perhaps I might learn to accept it. That perhaps I might find some semblance of… peace within it. But even that was not mine to decide.”
Alexander listened, her words settling uncomfortably deep, stirring his own similar feelings.
“I never chose any of it,” she finished.
Silence stretched.
“Neither did I,” he muttered.
Her gaze lifted, surprise flickering across her features.
“My father ensured that control was never an option,” Alexander said, leaning back slightly. “Every decision was his. Every failure mine.”
The memory rose again, unwanted—the crack of a hand, the weight of expectation, the cold certainty that nothing he did would ever be enough. He pushed it aside.
“Tell me something else,” he said abruptly, shifting the conversation before it could settle into feelings he couldn’t explore at that moment. “Something… inconsequential.”
She blinked. “Inconsequential?”
“Yes. Something that does not involve death or duty or disappointment.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“I once attempted to teach Emma’s dog to sit properly,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting as she shifted slightly in her chair, one hand coming up to gesture vaguely as though the memory played out before her. “It bit me.”
Alexander huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and unguarded as he leaned back, one ankle crossing over the other, his fingers tapping idly once against the arm of the chair. “And did it learn?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, a soft breath of amusement escaping her as she folded her hands loosely in her lap, her shoulders easing just slightly. “But I did.”
“And what, precisely, did you learn?” he asked, tilting his head, his gaze fixed on her with a quiet curiosity that lingered, his thumb brushing absently along the rim of his glass.
“That I should not attempt to command creatures who have no interest in listening,” she replied, lifting her brows faintly as she met his gaze, a glimmer of dry humor in her expression as she drew one leg slightly beneath her, settling more comfortably into the chair.
“Wise,” he murmured, a faint smile touching his lips as he inclined his head in mock agreement, though his eyes did not leave her.
“I thought so,” she said, her voice softening as the moment stretched, the earlier sharpness in her tone easing.
She yawned then, the sound small and unguarded as she lifted her hand to cover her mouth. Her lashes fluttered briefly as though the weight of exhaustion had crept up on her without warning, her shoulders sinking a fraction as the fight to remain awake began to slip.
Alexander’s gaze softened despite himself as he watched the way her eyes grew heavy, the way her shoulders relaxed, her body beginning to sink into the chair. Sleep was slowly claiming her whether she wished it or not.
“You should return to bed,” he said quietly.
“In a moment,” she murmured.
She did not move.
For a moment, he thought she might say something more, but instead her lashes fluttered slowly. Then they lowered, her breathing evening out as sleep claimed her.
Alexander remained where he was, utterly still, the glass forgotten in his hand as he watched her. Something shifted deep in his chest in a way that felt unfamiliar but entirely unavoidable.
She looked… peaceful, vulnerable in a way he had not seen before, stripped of the sharp edges she wore so effortlessly when awake.
